


Shear

by illwick



Series: Unwind [31]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Comeplay, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hair Kink, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 02:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Sherlock gets a haircut.John gets distracted.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Unwind [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/704085
Comments: 144
Kudos: 379





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m still slowly making my way through writing a rather daunting casefic, so I wanted to take a moment to thank you all for your patience during this long hiatus between postings. That said,  
> Benedict had to go and get a really nice haircut and now look where we are-- with another porny two-shot to hold you over until the new year:)
> 
> Just as a quick caveat, this piece delves a bit into gender expression and how Sherlock presents both his masculine and feminine sides to John-- and how much that gets John off. It’s intended as a celebration of Sherlock’s dichotomous instincts, and how profoundly John appreciates both of them.

“Remember--”

“Yes.”

“Remem--”

_“John.”_

_“Sherlock.”_

The air between them is so thick with tension it feels almost brittle, laced with filaments of invisible ice. Sherlock is glaring daggers at John from where he’s perched on the desk chair in the sitting room, leaning back so precariously far that it’s balanced on two legs. It takes all of John’s willpower not to add that to his growing list of beratements.

John sets his jaw and finishes adjusting his tie in the mirror above the mantle, then rounds to glare down at Sherlock properly.

“We. Are. Not. Going. Through. This. Again.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes belligerently and folds his arms across his chest, looking for all the world like a petulant child. “Going through what, exactly?”

John licks his lips. “None of this feels familiar to you? No enduring sense of _deja vu?”_

“What, you think this is going to be like the _Moriarty_ trial? Please, John. There were actually _stakes_ involved that time.”

“Yeah, and you mouthed off so much you were held in contempt of court, for Christ’s sake. Forgive me for not having much faith in your effortless ability to charm on the witness stand.”

This earns him an eye roll and another bout of stony silence.

John pinches the bridge of his nose; he really didn’t have time for this. “Sherlock, I am begging you. Please. Just-- _behave.”_

John hates himself for saying it even as the words leave his lips. They’ve been over this _ad nauseum_ in their counseling sessions: Sherlock _hates_ it when John reminds him to behave or act normal. Sherlock made it perfectly clear that he had no illusions about what _acceptable_ behaviour was; it was simply that sometimes, he didn’t have the bandwidth to conform to societal standards.

And John’s been trying to be understanding about this fact. And he’s gotten better about it-- he knows he has. He can’t remember the last time he’d commented on Sherlock’s behaviour-- or even felt compelled to, for that matter. They’d been making _progress_ on this front.

But today, there can be no room for error. No flagrant displays of intellectual superiority. No authority-undermining acts of rebellion.

Because they were leaving town for a mini-break tomorrow, and so help him God, John was _not_ going to let Sherlock wind up in jail and bollocks this up for the both of them.

Sherlock is glaring determinedly out the window, pointedly avoiding John’s gaze. John issues a defeated sigh, and rounds the table to place his hands gently on Sherlock’s shoulders and give them a light squeeze.

“Love, please. I just mean--”

“I know what you mean, John. And I understand. Message received. But honestly, you needn’t worry. I’m being called as an expert witness to talk about _ash._ I know ash. I’ll be fine.”

“I know. But please, just don’t mention--”

“I won’t mention anything that’s not ash. Or ash-related. Or at least ash-adjacent.”

“Thank you.”

“Except for perhaps the part where they ask my name and my legal residence. Because those haven’t much to do directly with ash.”

“Those seem like reasonable exceptions.”

He can feel a bit of the tension dissipate from Sherlock’s shoulders, and he digs his thumbs into the tender flesh there as he leans down to plant a kiss on the crown of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock gives a little growl, a conflicted mix of irritation and satisfaction, and John feels the chill between them lessen ever so slightly.

“Alright, then. I’m off to drop Rosie’s at Molly’s then I’ll be at the surgery until lunch. I’ll see you at the courthouse at one, yeah?”

“Mmmhmm.” Sherlock’s tone remains non-committal as John continues to massage his neck.

“Don’t forget you have a haircut today at eleven. _This_ is not a courthouse-appropriate look.” He runs his hands through Sherlock’s longer-than-usual locks; he’d been growing them out for an undercover case he’d just concluded, and they’d been looking uncharacteristically wild and unkempt the past few days.

“You didn’t seem to mind last night,” Sherlock gripes under his breath, and John feels a pulse of heat remembering how _delicious_ it had felt wrapping his fingers in those curls and _pulling_ as he’d fucked Sherlock fiercely from behind.

“Mmm. Well. Last night you weren’t testifying before the court on the chemical composition of ash.”

“No, last night I was advocating on behalf of a different type of _ash_ altogether…”

John snorts out a laugh despite himself, and gives Sherlock’s hair a fond tussle. “I’ll see you at one. Be good.”

Sherlock hums neutrally.

“I’ll make it worth your while this weekend.” And before Sherlock can even have a fair chance to react, he turns to collect Rosie and set out for his day.

*****

John can feel his heart palpitating as he looks down over the courtroom in anticipation of the return from recess. He’d been planning to meet Sherlock outside beforehand (not to give him another pep talk about appropriate courtroom conduct, of _course_ not, just to… calm him down a bit), but Sherlock had texted to notify John he’d been summoned early for some last-minute witness prep by the prosecutor. So John was seated alone on the stiff wooden bench in the back of the courtroom, sweaty palms pressed against his knees, his leg jiggling in nervous anticipation, _willing_ Sherlock to keep it together for once in his goddamn life.

The proceedings began, and John could feel his stomach clench. He couldn’t see Sherlock anywhere. Surely he wouldn’t be _late,_ would he? No, of course not, not for this…

John cranes his neck as his eyes wrack the sea of heads in front of him. No sign of Sherlock’s familiar curls.

Damn it.

And then the prosecutor was calling Sherlock’s name, and John feels a wave of panic wash over him--

And promptly chokes on his own spit.

Because there, in the second row, is a man rising to his feet. He has Sherlock’s stature, his impeccably-tailored suit, his lofty posture, and his trademark gait, but he looks _nothing_ like the Sherlock John knows.

Because his hair is… different.

It’s _short._

John had never really thought of Sherlock as having _long_ hair. After all, he kept it neat and styled and fastidiously-coiffed, and usually only ventured into “mad scientist” territory if Sherlock were on a particularly engaging and prolonged case.

But _this,_ this style Sherlock’s sporting now, looks so completely _foreign_ to John that Sherlock is rendered nearly unrecognisable.

He looks… older. Not in a bad way, no, just _solemn_ and _mature_ in a way John’s never really associated with him before. Even when paired with impeccable suits, Sherlock’s former hairstyle had still given him a distinctly _bohemian_ edge, but the new crop paired with his current outfit renders him more like a banker or barrister than _rogue-scientist-turned-full-time-detective._ Something about it accentuates his razor-sharp cheekbones and permeating gaze, and John finds himself suddenly, unpredictably, helplessly…

Turned on.

What the _hell._

_Get a grip, Watson._ He pinches his own thigh in an attempt to distract himself from the sudden heat in his groin. It helps for an instant, but the next Sherlock starts speaking, in that low, lofty baritone, and he’s just so…

Masculine?

John’s not quite sure that’s the right word for it, but there’s _something_ undeniably intriguing about the way this new haircut has shifted Sherlock’s overall appearance, from something slightly unconventional to something much more… _conformist._ Mainstream. Almost… _traditional._

And something about _that_ makes John want to drag Sherlock into the back chambers of the courthouse and do some very _untraditional_ things to him.

He tries to focus on Sherlock’s testimony. Honestly, he does. But his lizard-brain has taken full control of his faculties, and for some reason the only thing he can think about is the fact that he’s had the straight-laced, eloquent professional currently attesting to the chemical composition of cigar ash tied up, bent over, and begging for mercy in virtually every conceivable position known to mankind (and some he’s fairly certain they’d invented on their own). He can feel his cheeks flushing when he reflects upon the fact that he’s fairly certain no one in the courtroom listening to his testimony would suspect that Sherlock was deviously kinky, relentlessly horny, and almost irrationally fond of having his brains shagged out in a dazzling variety of compromising positions.

No. He couldn’t think about that. Shouldn’t think about the way Sherlock moans and writhes as he’s being taken apart, shouldn’t think about the way he bites his lip and shuts his eyes when he gets close, shouldn’t think about how fucking _tight_ his arse is when John’s inside of him…

And oh God, come to think of it, _no one_ would suspect that John was the one to take Sherlock’s virginity. No, no one in this courtroom would ever guess that the unassuming man sitting silently in the back row was the _first_ to break down the defenses of the impenetrable Sherlock Holmes, the man currently poised and patiently explaining the differences in tobacco exports of the Carolinas to the captivated court. No one would think that a man so solemn and composed could be capable of coming so fully apart.

John remembers how shocked he was when he was first allowed to bear witness to Sherlock’s sensuality. He’d been _attracted_ to Sherlock before then, of course, he’d found his mannerisms and aloof demeanour hopelessly intriguing, but _God,_ the first time he watched Sherlock’s face as he orgasmed is seared into John’s memory like a brand. And _oh,_ the noise Sherlock had made the first time John penetrated him, that high, breathy gasp so unlike his usual vocalisations that it turned John’s expectations right on their heads, that noise could play on a loop in John’s Mind Shack until his dying day and he’d be a happy man. And then what came afterwards-- the heady, heightened heat, the slick sensation of skin against skin, the way Sherlock’s body opened up for John so beautifully, taking someone fully inside for the first time, and it was _John,_ he’d chosen _John_ to give himself to, and Christ, that--

“--concludes our inquiry. No further questions.”

John snaps back to reality feeling flushed and a bit breathless. Before him, the judge is adjourning the court for the day, and everyone around him is rising to their feet.

He folds his coat resolutely in his lap and takes a few deep breaths.

“Shall we?”

He looks up to find Sherlock staring down at him with an impatient expression on his face, his toe tapping restlessly in his freshly-polished Oxfords.

John takes stock of the situation and determines if he’s quite quick about it, he can probably get his coat on before anyone notices his current predicament.

“Um, yeah, just… coat.” He stands and hastily turns his back to Sherlock as he shimmies into his coat and swiftly as possible. Then he turns to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

Sherlock looks at him like he’s lost his mind. John can hardly blame him, but he’d rather not have to explain to Sherlock that watching him testify had given him the most intense public erection he’s had since grade school. Instead, he pushes past Sherlock and makes a beeline for the doors.

“Come on. Let’s get home.”

They find a taxi with merciful ease, and John diligently averts his eyes away from Sherlock as they weave through the early afternoon traffic towards their flat. He’s mildly concerned that if he spares Sherlock a single glance, he may be tempted to do things that were _not_ conducive to the backseat of a vehicle without tinted windows in broad daylight.

“You hate it.”

Sherlock’s voice jolts John out of his resolve, and can’t help but turn to meet his eyes.

“Hate what? You did great up there.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose and runs his fingers through his shorn locks. “No. You hate my hair.”

John opens and closes his mouth a few times, at a bit of a loss for what to say. “No, I don’t. I really don’t.”

Sherlock scowls and slumps back in his seat to stare moodily out the window. “I knew it.”

“Sherlock, I’m being honest here. I don’t hate it at all, it’s just really… different. In a good way.”

Sherlock harumphs and crosses his arms. “Stop lying. You don’t even want to _look_ at me. You despise it.”

“I don’t despise it. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Please. Under normal circumstances you can’t refrain from meeting my eyes at least once every 11 seconds, on average. You sit close enough to me in a taxi for our knees to touch. I can see your pupils dilate when I enter your personal space. But now that I’m sporting _this,”_ (he takes the opportunity to dramatically clench his fingers in the chestnut-brown crown adorning his head), “you won’t make eye contact with me. You’re sitting as far away from me as possible. And when we were leaving the courtroom, you didn’t even want to be _seen_ with me. So stop _lying._ It’s dreadful and you hate it, and now you’re not attracted to me because I’m too _masculine_ for you. I _knew_ you’d hate it. I _knew_ it.”

John has to bite the inside of his cheek from laughing out loud. He’s about to open his mouth and lavish Sherlock with praise and affirmation, maybe even confess the real reason he didn’t want to stand up next to him in the courtroom, but suddenly he’s taken by the urge to string Sherlock along _just a bit._ After all, Sherlock was usually so infuriatingly _smug_ about just how much John lusted after him: leading him on with his popped collar and swaggering gait when they were out on London streets, bending over just a _bit_ too provocatively at crime scenes when he knew John would be tempted to catch an eyeful, playing his violin with that sultry flourish that so often drove John to his knees to fellate him voraciously, sauntering about the flat in those feather-light t-shirts and low-slung pyjama bottoms that rendered John incapable of coherent thought…

Yes, perhaps just this once, Sherlock Holmes ought to be made to _wait_ for a bit of validation.

So John puts on the best ‘disinterested’ expression he can muster and reclines to stare mournfully out his own window. “I guess we can talk about it at home.”

The rest of the ride passes in icy silence.

The moment he enters the flat, John proceeds directly to the kitchen to put the kettle on. It’s what he always does when he and Sherlock have something important to discuss, and he feels compelled to maintain the facade of disinterest as long as possible. When he turns around, he visibly startles-- Sherlock is standing directly behind him, looking at a bit of a loss. He’s removed his coat and draped it over one of the kitchen chairs, but he hardly looks at ease; anxiety is written across his faces in the creases of his frown. A frown which, John mentally notes, somehow looks much more _distinguished_ with his new hairdo.

John’s cock throbs.

There’s no way he’d be able to keep up the act much longer. While Sherlock’s self-consciousness seemed to be doing a number on his current ability to perform accurate deductions, John knows it won’t last-- Sherlock can detect John’s sex-flush from a mile away, and he’s certainly living on borrowed time as-is.

John clears his throat. Sherlock meets his eyes.

“Come here.” John keeps his voice low and measured. “Let me look at you.”

Sherlock swallows, then takes a few hesitant steps around the table to stand before John.

God, he’s gorgeous.

John reaches up and combs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. It feels _different,_ so different from the soft coils he’s used to. It feels coarser, somehow _thicker,_ and John gently rakes his fingernails against Sherlock’s scalp as he takes inventory of the situation.

Sherlock swears under his breath and slams his eyes shut.

“Alright?”

“You know what it does to me when you play with my hair. Stop teasing.”

“Who says I’m teasing?” John takes a pinch of chestnut mane between his fingers and _pulls._ It’s certainly not as easy as it was when Sherlock’s hair was longer, but the effect is still instantaneous.

Sherlock moans, low and rough in the back of his throat. “John, please. I know you think it’s hideous, but it still turns me on when you touch it, so unless you’re planning to see this through--”

And with that, John wraps his fingers around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulls him in for a heated kiss.

Sherlock immediately tenses, a rather undignified whimper of surprise emanating from the back of his throat, but John just tips his head to the side and leans in for another kiss, lapping at Sherlock’s lips until Sherlock’s mouth falls open to grant him entry.

John licks inside, Sherlock’s tongue tangling with his own. He can feel Sherlock’s breath hot and heavy as it intermingles with his, their lips moving against one another in a familiar slick slide, practiced and eager all at once. John combs his fingers into the short strands at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and chuckles to himself as Sherlock shudders against him.

He doesn’t let Sherlock pull away. He keeps kissing him, slow and sure and deep, until he feels Sherlock’s hands come to rest on his waist and he senses the tension gradually melting out of Sherlock’s coiled muscles. He kisses him hard and certain and full of promise as Sherlock surrenders, and kisses him back.

Their breaths come harder and quicker as they carry on, John pressing his body the length of Sherlock’s as he cups Sherlock’s jaw in his hands, controlling the pace. Sherlock reciprocates with enthusiasm, nipping at John’s lower lip as his hands wander from John’s waist to his arse, until he’s pulling John’s pelvis flush against his own. They moan in tandem, eyes blinking open for the first time in what feels like ages, mutually startled by the intensity of their own arousal.

John doesn’t waste any time. He backs Sherlock up between frantic kisses, his feet edging their way between Sherlock’s own as he steers him towards the kitchen table. Sherlock takes the hint; he spreads his legs to let John work his way between them until John’s thrusting up against Sherlock’s answering hardness, his actions leaving little room for interpretation.

The backs of Sherlock’s thighs collide with the table, eliciting a gasp from Sherlock and a rather precarious-sounding rattle from something perched there, but John can’t be arsed to take stock of the situation. He continues surging forward between Sherlock’s spread legs, hands flying down to grip the backs of Sherlock’s thighs to give them a tug-- _up. Up._

Sherlock understands implicity. John feels him lower himself to sit on the tabletop, and moments later he’s wrapping his impossibly long legs around John’s waist, pulling him close, closer, until they’re grinding and moaning into one another’s mouths and John knows he has to keep this moving or they’re both going to come apart at the seams.

He places his palm firmly on Sherlock’s sternum and pushes him back. Sherlock utters a desperate little whine of protest as their lips part, but John just gives him a devious grin. Sherlock shifts his hands back to prop himself up in a sitting position on the table, but John shakes his head defiantly and pushes harder, raising his eyebrows, his gaze imbibed with meaning. Sherlock moans and his eyes roll back in his head as he lets John push him _all_ the way down until he’s lying flat, legs splayed, head lolling to the side, hands flying up to grip the edge of the table above him.

There. Now _that’s_ where John wants him.

John runs his hands greedily up and down Sherlock’s muscular thighs, which are still bracketing John’s hips. Sherlock arches a bit, showing off his figure, his perfectly-tailored suit jacket falling open to reveal his pecs straining against his light blue button-down. And _God,_ something about the way he looks in that suit with his _hair,_ his damn _hair,_ so _mature_ and _respectable_ and _composed_ , and _fuck,_ John leans forward and plunges his tongue back into Sherlock’s eager mouth, and he ruts frantically against him as Sherlock whimpers and moans.

It’s hard to make himself stop. He has to confess, for a split second he considers just letting them finish like that, frotting against each other helplessly until they both come in their pants like a couple of horny teenagers, but he manages to mentally talk himself out of it. As fantastic as he’s sure that would feel, he wants -- needs -- so much more.

He stills his hips and concentrates on pressing soft, sweet kisses against Sherlock’s lips while in the meantime, his fingers trail down Sherlock’s unimaginably long legs to tug at his shoelaces. It’s hardly graceful but he makes it work, and before too long he’s pulling off his shoes and socks before bringing his hands back up to his waist, moaning into Sherlock’s wanting mouth as he works his impeccable dress shirt from the confines of his trousers.

He tries to make quick work of Sherlock’s belt and flies, but he admittedly allows himself to become distracted palming the hardness of Sherlock’s throbbing member, which he finds straining valiantly against the fabric. Sherlock bucks and moans beneath his ministrations, and John can’t help but chuckle-- the way Sherlock moves and writhes when John’s taking him apart, it’s just so beautifully, effortlessly _Sherlock,_ so greedy and needy yet graceful and calculated all at the same time. It’s gorgeous, so _fucking gorgeous,_ and John ceases kissing him just long enough to tell him so, murmuring it low and dark into his ear. Sherlock just whines and cants his hips before spreading his legs ever further, and John knows it’s now or never.

He divests Sherlock of his trousers and pants with as little fanfare as possible, then turns to grab the bottle of lube they keep stashed in the kitchen cupboard behind the olive oil. His heart skips a beat when he turns back around; just this vision of Sherlock, the ethereal, complicated, endlessly maddening genius laid bare and spread out for John’s perusal right there on the damn kitchen table, Christ, if John could have envisioned this moment all those years ago, he’d have thought himself insane--

But he’s not insane. He’s here and this is _real,_ and Sherlock is arching and calling out his name as John slicks up one finger and guides it to his entrance. Then John lowers his head to take the tip of Sherlock’s cock between his lips, and in one simultaneous slide he presses his finger into Sherlock as he swallows his cock fully down his throat.

_“FUCK!”_ Sherlock’s hands fly to John’s hair and tangle there, holding him desperately in place as he acclimates to the sensation. John swallows around his girth and does his best to breathe through his nose; his gag reflex has always been disappointingly sensitive, but he’s been working on it lately, and he’s secretly pleased to note that he’s able to swallow comfortably around Sherlock’s cock as he focuses on leveling his own breathing. He twists the finger that he’s plunged into Sherlock’s channel, making him feel how deeply he’s penetrated him, and he can feel Sherlock’s cock throb against his tongue in response. _Perfect._

Eventually the tension eases from Sherlock’s fingers and John feels him begin to gently card his fingers through his hair, encouraging him. John smiles (well, as much as he can with a mouth full of cock) and gets to work.

He keeps his actions in perfect tandem: As he raises his head to suckle just the tip of Sherlock’s prick, he withdraws his finger until he’s simply tracing the very edge of his rim. He toys with him, stringing Sherlock out on the lightest ripples of pleasure, until his moans become sighs, soft and steady. As soon as he’s been predictably lulled into a false sense of security, John plunges back down again, swallowing Sherlock’s cock whole as he drives his finger relentlessly into his channel, taking care to brush firmly against his prostate along the way. Sherlock howls and swears, his thighs clamping tight around John’s shoulders as he succumbs to the overwhelming wave of pleasure.

He works him over thoroughly, occasionally pausing to add more lube (first to two digits, then to three). Each time he pauses he suckles Sherlock’s balls into his mouth one at a time, lapping against them while above him, Sherlock rocks and trembles on the table. By the time he’s twisting three fingers into the indescribably tight heat of his body, Sherlock has been reduced to panting moans that nearly sound like sobs.

Satisfied, John takes a deep breath before deepthroating Sherlock one final time and crooking his fingers to press directly against his prostate. He rubs the nub of nerves in sharp, persistent pulses, just the way he knows Sherlock loves it best. He can feel the lube trickling down his palm and wrist, and his own cock throbs in wanton envy.

Sherlock’s cries go high and frantic, and his fingers tighten in John’s hair once more before giving it a quick tug. John knows what he’s doing; he’s warning him he’s about to come. John doubles down on his efforts, and sucks as hard as he can.

With a shout and a thrust, Sherlock spills his load in heavy pulses. John swallows and resumes bobbing his head, letting the come spilling from the corners of his mouth slick the way for his eager lips. Inside Sherlock’s channel, he spreads his fingers wide, stretching him open as the pleasure ricochets its way through Sherlock’s nervous system.

He works him until Sherlock is shivering from overstimulation, his thighs twitching in helpless spasms where they’re draped over John’s shoulders, heels digging into John’s back. John gasps in the first real breath he’s taken in what feels like ages as Sherlock’s spent member slips from between his lips, but he doesn’t hesitate before leaning back down to tenderly lick the last traces of come from the tip.

“Jesus, fuck, John, oh my _God…”_ John pulls himself upright with a smug smile to see a thoroughly-wrecked Sherlock blinking up at him with starstruck eyes.

“Good, love?”

“Christ, yeah. Come on, fuck me now, I need it…” He pulls his thighs back to his chest, an erotic, pornographic offering.

“Patience, patience,” John laughs as he wipes his lips, then leans over Sherlock to give him a quick kiss while the hand not currently fingering his arse pulls his own aching cock from his trousers.

He stands up to his full height and props Sherlock’s legs onto his shoulders, then quickly withdraws his fingers and replaces them with his cock.

“Hhhng!” Sherlock’s eyes slam shut and he tips his pelvis up to welcome the intrusion, hands flying back up above his head to grip the edge of the table. John just grins, then takes Sherlock’s slim hips firmly in his hands to hold his body in place, and begins to thrust.

And it’s…

Something.

… Something different.

Despite being naked from the waist down, Sherlock is still wearing his dress shirt and suit jacket, and the fact that his hair is now undeniably _short_ means that he doesn’t have the crazed, fucked-out look he usually gets in the wake of their coupling. Instead, were it not for the fact that his eyes were currently closed and his body was rocking violently with the force of John’s thrusts, he could be at a business meeting. Or… or out at one of those fancy pubs that cater to banking wankers and city boys that he always turned his nose up at. Or… or walking the halls of parliament, on his way to an important meeting with the secretary of some far-off land. Or… or settled on one of the couches of the Diogenes, cloistered within the halls of power, or perhaps about to give a lecture at Cambridge while the giddy students in the hall imagined doing this very thing…

“Fuck, God, Sherlock, you’re gorgeous, you’re so gorgeous, you’re so good for me, so good… oh God, love, you’re gonna make me come, gonna come inside you, oh, _fuck…”_

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open, his cupid’s-bow lips parted and glistening from where he’d been biting them. “John, yes, _yes,_ come in me, _please, please_ , do it, come on now…”

“Nnngh _fuck--”_ John’s left hand slips from Sherlock’s hips to slam onto the table beside his shoulder, bending him further in half. Sherlock wails at the renewed depth of penetration, and his eyes fly open wide, locking his gaze with John’s.

“John! John! _Oh, God, yes. I was made for this. I was made to take your cock. I was made for your come.”_

And well _fuck,_ if there isn’t something about Sherlock goddamn Holmes proclaiming that he was _made to take John’s cock_ that doesn’t just send him spiraling over the edge into an orgasm so dizzying, by the time he regains his bearings the kitchen table has somehow wound up halfway across the room, his arms and legs are shaking from exertion, and Sherlock is groaning and arching against the wetness leaking from his fluttering hole as John’s hips continue to press forward demandingly into his prone form.

“Holy _shit.”_ John slumps forward on to his forearms, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s, letting their sweat and breath intermingle. He wills his pelvis to stop moving and he finally settles, but he can still feel his prick twitching in the tight heat enveloping it. Sherlock shifts again, his movement sending aftershocks of pleasure up John’s spine, and he bites his lip in ecstasy.

There’s a pause, just the briefest, most perfect silence, and then--

John’s jolted back to reality by the sound of Sherlock chuckling beneath him.

He props himself back up on his palms to glare down at him for disrupting the mood, but hell, he can hardly blame him-- he knows this laugh damn well: it’s the smug cackle of glee Sherlock only makes when he gets his deductions _just_ right.

John tries his best to look unamused. _“‘I was made to take your come,’_ hmmm? Decided to try a new line on me?”

Sherlock just giggles harder. “Well, I wasn’t _wrong,_ was I? You orgasmed the second the words left my mouth.”

“Am I really so predictable?”

Sherlock gives the best semblance of a shrug he can muster while still being pinned to the table. “Virginity kink plus possessive streak plus a penchant for come talk. It was hardly rocket science, John.”

“Fair enough. Hold still, you.” John pulls himself to standing and gently reaches up to lower Sherlock’s legs off his shoulders. Sherlock winces a bit but doesn’t complain, and John presses a light kiss to his ankle before reaching down to withdraw his softening cock.

“Up?” John offers him a hand which Sherlock gladly accepts, and pulls him into a sitting position with a grunt. 

“Christ. I think I need to start doing more yoga. My hips aren’t what they used to be.” Despite his complaints, Sherlock manages to lower himself off the table with surprising grace, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.

“They felt just fine to me,” John retorts, reaching out to pinch the skin where just the hint of a bruise in the shape of his own fingertips is beginning to form.

Sherlock rolls his eyes then stoops to collect his clothing and pads off down the hallway. “I’m just going to rinse off.”

“Sounds good. Should I order Thai for dinner?”

“Perfect. I’m exhausted.”

“Remember we still have to pack tonight.”

“Honestly, John, I don’t know why we bother to bring clothes on these mini-breaks at all, if we’re just going to spend the whole time shagging.”

Before John can retort, he hears the sound of the bathroom door snap shut.

*******

It’s not until later that night, tucked under the covers with Sherlock’s arm flung across his chest, that John even remembers what had spawned the entire encounter in the first place.

“So… you don’t completely hate it, then?” Sherlock’s voice was low and soft in the dark.

“Hmm? Hate what?” John had been tiptoeing along the edge of sleep, and he tries to recall what on earth Sherlock could be talking about.

“My hair.”

“Oh. No, Sherlock, I don’t hate it at all. I think it looks quite handsome, to be honest.”

“But… but earlier today, in the courtroom, you… you didn’t want to be seen with me. Is it… is it because I look too--”

John has to suppress a chuckle. “Sherlock, you don’t look _too_ anything. Can I be honest?”

“Of course.”

“The reason I couldn’t stand up after your testimony is because seeing you up there on that witness stand giving expert advice looking devastatingly professional and completely dashing made me so horny that I was sporting a massive hard-on.”

Sherlock explodes into another fit of giggles, burying his face in John’s neck. “Really?”

“Really. You look good, love. And I plan to spend all damn weekend reminding you just _how_ good you look. I’m glad you cut it. It was a good choice.”

There’s a pause. “Can I be honest, then, too?”

“Of course.”

“...I sneezed.”

“...Pardon?”

“The barber was cutting my hair and I sneezed. And then one section was too short, so there was nothing to do but… well, even it all out.”

John’s dissolved into giggles now, too, imagining the look of mortification on Sherlock’s face as his precious locks fell to the ground in the wake of his mishap.

And they hold each other and giggle and giggle until the giggles turn to sighs, imagining all the weekend would have in store for them both.


	2. Chapter 2

The weather in Suffolk had been blissfully merciful all weekend, and John delights in the sensation of fresh air in his lungs and unfiltered evening sunshine on his face as he makes his way along the path through the pasture towards their cottage. The smell of damp grass and warm dirt seemed to rejuvenate him; even the curmudgeonly Londoner he was at heart couldn’t deny the spring he gained in his step when he and Sherlock took mini-breaks like these.

This was only the fourth such _intentional_ mini-break they’d ever taken (at the rate of one per month), but John was determined to make a habit of it based on a rather _awkward_ conversation they’d had with their counsellor that past autumn.

They’d been discussing varying forms of intimacy (physical, social, emotional) when their counsellor Anthony had off-handedly posed the question, “What do you require to feel _physically_ intimate with your partner?”

John had furrowed his brow, feeling a bit self-conscious about the rather personal nature of the question. “Um… touch?” He’d responded diplomatically.

At the exact same time and without qualm or hesitation, Sherlock had answered, “Penetrative intercourse.”

John did a double-take. “I… wait, you what?”

Sherlock was staring back at John as though he’d never seen him before. “Well, yes, I’d’ve thought that was quite obvious. Penetrative intercourse is my preferred form of physical intimacy. Is it not yours?”

John issued a wary glance at Anthony, who was observing the exchange with an admirably professional air of feigned disinterest.

“I… I mean, sex is great, yeah, of course, but I also like… snuggling on the sofa, or spooning in bed? And… _penetrative intercourse_ seems _really_ specific, Sherlock, since we, you know, do lots of other… um, sexual things, too…”

Sherlock shrugged. “Right, and that’s all fine. But I like penetrative intercourse.”

John was feeling vaguely incensed. “That’s all _fine?_ As in, _just okay?”_

“I didn’t say it was _just okay,_ I said it was _fine,_ because it _is_ fine, but Anthony specifically asked us about what’s required for me to feel intimate with you, and my answer is _penetrative intercourse.”_

John opened his mouth to protest. “Yes, but--”

“Alright, let’s hold up right here,” Anthony interjected, waving his hand in the air. “Seems like this is the start of an important conversation, but honestly, it’s not one that you need me here for. So your homework for this week is to continue this discussion on your own time, and next week we’ll circle back to the discoveries you’ve made about each other.”

John had wanted to have the talk _properly:_ seated in front of their fireplace with hot cups of tea in hand for a gentle, honest negotiation of what was _apparently_ a rather sensitive topic for them both. But the moment they stepped out onto the street after the appointment had concluded, Sherlock pulled his collar up around his neck, crossed his arms belligerently to wrap his Belstaff around him, and took off towards the Tube at a pace that John could only match if he took it at a brisk trot. Sherlock knows damn well John hates it when he walks too fast, so he was clearly goading him on; John swore under his breath and tried to formulate a game plan on the run.

He knew Sherlock could be sensitive about his sex drive. John’s not entirely sure why-- perhaps it was because so many people assumed he was asexual as a result of his rote, analytic brain and slightly off-putting personality, or perhaps it was because Sherlock had still been a virgin when he’d taken up with John, and the knowledge of John’s _considerably_ broader breadth of experience made him self-conscious. But whatever it was, it always struck a nerve, and that day was no exception. John steeled himself for the fallout.

“Oy. Sherlock. Slow down, please.” He grabbed his upper arm and thankfully, Sherlock acquiesced. “Are we going to talk about this like adults, or are you going to storm off like a moody teenager?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “I thought we _were_ acting like teenagers. What with your preference for _cuddling_ and _spooning_ and _light petting_ and the like.”

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I said I _liked_ those things, Sherlock, not that I _preferred_ them. They’re part of a whole package, a package that makes me feel close to you. Do you… do you _not_ like them?” John felt a distinct out-of-body sensation at the thought, as though somehow his entire relationship with Sherlock would have been built on a lie. Did Sherlock not _like_ touch?

“I like them.” (John internally breathed a sigh of relief.) “But I’ve done those things with other people. Those things and more. But the intercourse I’ve only done with you.”

_Oh._

So _that’s_ what this was all about.

“In the past, I’ve engaged in those behaviours with people I didn’t care about. People I didn’t even know. And then there was the time… well, the time when I was really sick, and I did those things for the wrong reasons, and I learned to disassociate them from intimacy. They were transactional.”

John swallowed hard. He’s familiar enough with Sherlock’s checkered sexual history to understand what he’s saying, but it’s always jarring to hear him talk about it aloud. Even so, he managed a curt nod before posing the only question his brain could seem to form. “But does it feel… _transactional_ when it’s between us?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Of course not. It’s different when we do those things with each other. It _does_ feel intimate, I’m not saying it doesn’t. But sex… _intercourse…_ that’s special.”

John cocked his head. “Special how?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Because it’s something we only do with each other. I’d never had sex with a man before I met you. And you’d never had sex with a man before you met me. It’s something we only share between the two of us. Something… something I’ve never given anyone else. And something _you_ haven’t given anyone else, either, which, let’s be honest, is saying something.”

John tries not to take offense. He knows deep down that his _three-continents_ reputation hasn’t always been easy for Sherlock. Not just the endless parade of flings he’d brought through their flat before the two of them became intimate, but even John’s loving relationship with Mary had made Sherlock feel _othered._ They’d discussed that much in depth before. It was only in light of their current conversation, however, that John realised just how much value Sherlock placed upon that.

He’d been aware in a vague, nebulous way that Sherlock became irritable if they went more than their average of 11 days without intercourse, and he’d done his best to prevent dry spells despite their hectic schedules and demanding lifestyle-- not to mention the pressures of raising a child together. He’d like to believe that he prioritised their physical intimacy, but it was suddenly becoming acutely aware to him that perhaps they needed to be proactive about it.

When he made love to Sherlock that night, it was with a newfound sense of reverence. He reflected on the way that their physical union was special to them both, and he found himself blisteringly attuned to the way Sherlock responded so openly and trustingly to his touch. Sherlock was right. This _was_ special.

So the next day, John made plans for them to take a proper mini-break together.

Or, as Sherlock delighted in calling it (publically and without a single iota of shame), a “sex holiday.”

And that, for the most part, was exactly what it was.

They’d fallen into a sort of beautiful, unspoken rhythm during these getaways, one that reflected their mutual needs and desires.

They’d arrive at their destination early Friday afternoon, after handing Rosie off to Sherlock’s parents for the weekend. They’d barely make it through the doorway of their temporary abode before tumbling into bed, and they’d spend the rest of the day-- _the entire rest of the day--_ having frankly obscene amounts of sex.

John had considered himself a fairly sexual being for virtually his entire adult life, yet it still never failed to astound him exactly _what_ having sex with Sherlock could do to him. He could make love to him for hours and never tire, and his desire never waned. Even after four orgasms, something in his brain always demanded _moremoremore!_ and he’d find himself pushing Sherlock’s legs apart and sinking into his perfect heat again and again as beneath him, Sherlock let himself fall completely, utterly, _perfectly_ apart. He could lick Sherlock’s pale skin and pluck his hard nipples and fondle his soft sac and stroke his hard shaft for as long as Sherlock would allow, and _God,_ Sherlock allowed all of it, all of it and more, and the world around them would melt and dissolve and time grew sticky and slow until there was nothing-- _nothing--_ but salt and sweat and heat and come, feral and beautiful and wanton and pure as they drowned themselves in toe-curling, sheet-gripping pleasure.

The next morning they’d wake, crusty and musky and stinking of sex, slightly bashful as they shuffled off to the shower to wash.

And then they’d go their separate ways. 

John liked to explore. He’d wander a nearby village, sample a pint at the local pub, take long walks in the rolling countryside, or go for a jog around the grounds.

Sherlock preferred seclusion. He’d stay in their cottage and read or write or take a hot bath or sometimes just _think._ John would wander back around dusk and sometimes find Sherlock sitting in near-total darkness, fingers steepled beneath his chin, lost inside his Palace.

Then John would turn on a light. Sherlock would blink. Their eyes would meet. And they’d both smile.

Sex on Saturday nights was different. Sometimes they’d have a session if they hadn’t _unwound_ in a while; John would strip Sherlock and tie him up, or make him kneel, or handcuff him to the headboard. Other times, if they weren’t in the mood for a power exchange, they’d cook a meal together and then retire to bed for a single round of vanilla sex, full of whispered endearments and tender promises. John’s found he honestly doesn’t prefer one over the other.

Sunday they’d return to the city, return to their lives, return to Rosie and the family they’d made.

But mini-breaks, John’s decided, are _highly_ important. For self-care.

He sometimes forgets just how lucky he and Sherlock are. One night he’d been out at the pub with Greg, and several pints in he made an (uncharacteristically) semi-lewd reference to his upcoming holiday with Sherlock, and Greg just groaned and buried his face in his hands.

 _“Must_ you rub it in?”

John gave him a shrug. “Rub what in?”

“The fact that you’ve been with the same person for bloody _ages,_ yet somehow I still catch you staring at his arse at my crime scenes like an adolescent pervert, and the two of you are forced to leave the city on a monthly basis so you can go screw like rabbits in the countryside while the rest of us drink alone in our flats.”

“You don’t _have_ to be alone in your flat, you know. You’re a perfectly eligible bachelor! You just need to put in the effort.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Please. I put in plenty of effort with the missus, and all that got me was the inevitable bed death followed by five figures in legal fees.”

John swilled the last of his pint. “You really believe bed death is inevitable?”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “‘S far as I can tell, you and your insatiable consulting detective are the only exception to that rule. Are you telling me _all_ your previous relationships stayed _lively_ the whole way through?”

John paused to consider it. But now that Greg mentioned it… well, no. No, they hadn’t. Even with Mary, things had started out hot and heavy but had fizzled quickly. But that had just been a result of the pregnancy. 

… Hadn’t it?

“I… well, no, I suppose not.”

Greg tipped his glass in John’s direction. “Well there you go, then. It’s always grim after a while. Near the end, the only time me and my wife had sex was after she’d been unfaithful and I’d decided to forgive her. We’d shag like crazy for weeks afterwards, but then the attraction would fade, until she went out and did it again.”

John paused to consider this, and then (because apparently the filter between his brain and his mouth had summarily decided to take the night off) asked, “So why didn’t you two just… go with it?”

Greg gave him a quizzical glance. “Go with… what?”

“The whole… infidelity thing? I mean, if that’s what got you both off, is that really so bad?”

Greg’s eyebrows had all but disappeared into his hairline. “Well, it’s not exactly the _conventional_ way to maintain a marriage, is it?”

John shrugged. “I dunno, it’s just a kink. Far worse things in the world than a shared kink between consenting adults.”

Greg paused for a beat. “Is that… Is that what you and Sherlock do?”

John nearly choked on his beer; apparently Greg’s filters had gone completely offline as well. Through his sputtering, he managed a garbled, “Um, no. No, not _that_ exact thing, no.” He took a deep breath and tried to collect his (alcohol-saturated) thoughts, at least enough to clarify his point so that Greg didn’t think he was kink-shaming him. “I just… think being with Sherlock has made me realise that you shouldn’t… well, you shouldn’t take things off the table just because society doesn’t consider them _normal._ Sherlock may operate outside polite society’s norms most of the time, but the upside is that means he’s got basically zero inhibitions and as it turns out, that’s rather an asset when it comes to maintaining attraction in a relationship. He’s not afraid to ask for what he wants, even if it’s a bit _unconventional_ by society’s standards. And that’s made me more confident to do the same.”

Greg paused to consider this. Finally, he chugged the last half of his pint and slapped it down on the counter with an air of finality. “So all I need to do is find myself a woman with absolutely zero social skills, no verbal filter, and a knack for pissing off everyone in her general proximity, and she’ll be dynamite in the sack?”

John couldn’t help but snort. “Yup. Exactly. Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

They’d both laughed it off at the time, but the conversation had served as a much-needed reminder to John that despite the overwhelming amount of emotional work both he and Sherlock had to put into it, their relationship was, at its core, something his heart knew was well worth fighting for (and John’s cock wholeheartedly agreed).

He catches himself smiling smugly at the memory, and inwardly chuckles at how mad he must look-- traipsing down a muddy path lugging a heavy satchel of fresh firewood from the gatehouse of the estate where the cottage was located, grinning like a loon at absolutely nothing.

But waiting for him back at the cottage was Sherlock, and a fresh batch of his infamous ratatouille which, to John’s surprise, he’d offered to rustle up for them while John went out to spend the day taking in the grounds. All he’d asked in return is that John pick up some firewood on his way back so they could have a romantic meal in front of the fire before they turned in for the night (well, he hadn’t exactly used the word _romantic,_ instead muttering something under his breath about allergies and air quality and keeping the windows shut), but John had gotten his drift. And after spending the previous day engaged in much more _strenuous_ activities, John was all too happy to oblige; a quiet evening with hot soup and a warm fire sounded _perfect._

So he’s more than a bit surprised when he pushes open the door to the cottage to find Sherlock standing over the stove, stark naked save for his black Louboutin heels and crimson silk panties.

John drops the bundle of firewood with a clatter. 

Sherlock’s head snaps in his direction, and their eyes meet. John opens and closes his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Slowly, Sherlock pulls himself up to his full height, and places the spoon on the counter before turning to face him fully. “Hi, John.”

John blinks. “Hello.”

The air between them feels suddenly thick, and John’s brain struggles to catch up with this most recent turn of events. Sherlock is wearing his heels and panties. And he’s cooking. _Why?_

Sherlock rarely cross-dressed, and when he did, it was usually reserved for times they were having overt power exchanges and John asked him to. The idea of him packing his fancy heels and skivvies for a weekend in the countryside seemed-- _uncharacteristic,_ to say the least.

John licks his lips and tries to read Sherlock’s expression. There’s something there that isn't there normally. It looks almost like… trepidation? Concern? _Fear?_

But what the hell did he have to be _afraid_ of?

John takes a slow step forward into the sitting room, eyes adjusting to the dim light inside the cottage (per usual, Sherlock had neglected to turn on any lamps in John’s absence, and single room had grown dim in the waning light). He draws a deep, steadying breath. 

“Sherlock? Is everything alright?”

Sherlock swallows hard. John can see his Adam’s apple bobbing against the pale column of his throat, and he can feel his own throat tighten in response.

Sherlock holds his gaze, but when he speaks, his voice is soft. “Is this… is this okay?”

John gives him a little smile. “Of course it’s okay, love. It’s always okay. You just… took me a little by surprise, is all. Is this… a special occasion?” He suddenly finds himself having a hard time focusing as his gaze wanders down past Sherlock’s delicate clavicles and along his toned torso, then further still to the point where his hipbones protrude above the line of elegantly scalloped lace.

Sherlock’s combs his fingers through his shorn locks nervously, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I just… the hair. John, it’s the damn hair.”

John has to bite back a laugh. “The hair? _Again?”_ He’s honestly a little relieved; he was wondering if perhaps this was the expression of a larger issue he’d somehow been completely ignorant of.

Sherlock glowers back at him. “I know, I know, it’s vain and it’s petty and it’s narcissistic, but I just… it doesn’t feel like _me._ I feel like someone else with my hair this short. And I just… I wanted to… I wanted to wear these things, because I thought they’d balance it all out, but now I feel like I just look ridiculous, like some damn corporate wanker in a cheap drag show, doing it for laughs, and-- for God’s sake, stop _looking_ at me like that! I feel like a bloody _joke.”_

All traces of amusement have evaporated from John’s face. He’s suddenly blindingly, _painfully_ reminded of just how vulnerable Sherlock is making himself when he wears feminine clothing. It’s his expression of a side of himself he never displays outside the privacy of their flat, and John always treats him with worshipful, respectful reverence when he chooses to reveal it to him. After all, Sherlock told him early on that he’d never worn such garments for sexual gratification before he met John. This was a display of absolute trust.

In three strides John has crossed the room, and he brings his hands up to cup Sherlock’s face tenderly but firmly, forcing Sherlock to meet his eye.

“Sherlock. Do you see me laughing?” He keeps his voice low and even, his face serious and stern.

Sherlock blinks. “No.”

John’s lip quirks ever so slightly as he wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist and pulls his palm to the burgeoning bulge at the front of his denims. “And does _this_ feel like a joke to you?”

Sherlock’s pupils visibly dilate, and he licks his lips on instinct. _“No,_ John.”

John gives him a satisfied nod. “Good. So I think we can conclude that there’s nothing absurd or ridiculous about what you do to me when you wear such pretty things.” He guides Sherlock’s hand over his erection in slow, deliberate strokes, letting Sherlock _feel_ it as he quickly attains full hardness. 

Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and he growls low in his throat, dropping his forehead to rest in the crook of John’s neck.

“Mmm, there we go, that’s lovely.” Sherlock continues to fondle John through his jeans as John releases his wrist and brings his fingers up to run them reassuringly through Sherlock’s hair. “So perfect. So amazing. Sherlock Holmes, you are the singular most gorgeous creature that I have ever laid eyes on. You could shave your head bald or get a mohawk or bleach it blond and grow it past your shoulders for all I care, _I will always want you. Unconditionally._ Do you understand that?”

“Mmmmm…” Sherlock moans low and presses his lips against John’s neck, the touch warm and moist. He pumps John’s member faster, the stiffness of the fabric aggravating his aching cock.

“Sherlock, I said, _‘Do you understand that?”_ John’s using his Captain Voice now, the tone he _knows_ Sherlock can’t resist.

“Yes, John.” The words are barely a whisper in the damp heat between them, but John hears them loud and clear.

“Good.” He reaches back down to grab Sherlock’s wrist, stilling his ministrations; Sherlock whimpers in apparent disappointment. “Now that we have that sorted, why don’t you go finish cooking our dinner, hmm? I’ll get a nice fire started.”

Sherlock pulls himself back to his full height and rests his forehead against John’s. “Alright.” With that, he disentangles himself from John’s embrace to make his way back to the pot on the stove, reaching for the spoon and giving it a hearty stir.

Sherlock didn’t call him _Captain,_ John notes as he turns his attention to the fireplace. Which means he probably wasn’t angling for an all-out power exchange; he appeared instead to be in the mood for something a bit more tender, a bit more loving. Which, in all honesty, was probably a good thing-- not only had they gone four rounds the previous day, but they’d had penetrative intercourse the two days preceding it as well, and John had been a bit apprehensive that he’d need to turn down Sherlock’s overtures if he asked for more again tonight. While Sherlock didn’t always respect the boundaries of his own transport, John made damn sure to respect those boundaries _for_ him when Sherlock got too greedy or submissive to do so on his own behalf.

He tends the flames until the fire has grown to a warming blaze, a welcome contrast to the chill seeping slowly in through the ancient windowpanes. It fills the room with a cheery glow, and John pulls up a chair to sit beside it and bask in the heat.

Across the cottage, Sherlock seems content enough hovering over the warmth of the stove, stirring the simmering pot with his hip cocked jauntily out to the side, his body all sharp, pale angles in the dim light. John fondles himself absently through his trousers as he watches him, admiring the way Sherlock’s delicate ankles look balanced atop his provocative black heels, the way the pert globes of his arsecheeks peek out ever so slightly beneath the crimson swirls of lace perched upon them. His waist seems impossibly narrow above his slimp hips, the delicate V of his coccyx just visible above his panty line. Yet his back is visibly muscular, coiled strength shrouded in the mass of scars traversing it, the shadows dancing over the peaks and valleys of his flesh as Sherlock stirs and shifts. And his neck, his beautiful neck, impossibly long and elegant, even more pronounced with his raven locks shorn short. He’s breathtaking.

Eventually Sherlock reaches up to rummage through the cupboards to produce two bowls, into which he ladles steaming heaps of stew. Displaying a shocking amount of grace for a man of his height not normally accustomed to wearing heels, he pivots and makes his way across the room to the rugged wooden table situated beneath the window overlooking the darkening grounds. He turns and gives John a pointed look. 

“Care to join me?” His voice is low and imbibed with heat, and it’s with a great degree of reluctance that John ceases stimulating his own cock through his trousers and rises (somewhat stiffly) to make his way over to one of the dining chairs. Sherlock retreats momentarily to fetch two spoons, then folds himself into the chair opposite him and blinks back at John in rapt anticipation. “Eat up, then.” He seems suddenly mildly exasperated, and John can’t bite back his grin at such a familiar tone passing through Sherlock’s lips, despite his current state of dress.

He leans over and takes a bite of the ratatouille. As always, it’s absolute perfection.

“This is amazing, Sherlock.”

“Thank you. Did you enjoy your day?”

This part is a bit of a practiced ritual, John’s come to realise, at times when Sherlock cross-dresses. He seems to glean some sort of satisfaction in the innate discrepancy in their state of dress; John fully clothed, with Sherlock clad only in lingerie, while they both pretend that it’s the most natural thing in the world.

As John predicted, they muddle amicably through some small talk between mouthfuls of food. As much as he’d like to skip dinner and get straight down to business, he knows that this is part of the process, too: the mutual imbibing in sustenance as a tantalising, mesmerising sort of dance, their actions casual and carefree while the undertone is anything _but._

Besides, Sherlock had _cooked._ He knows better than to let it go to waste.

That said, he’s still more than willing to take Sherlock’s cue when he sets his spoon aside and wipes his lips with a contented sigh. They fall instantly into a heady silence, and their eyes meet over the table. Suddenly, John finds it very hard to breathe.

But breathe he does. He collects a smooth, measured breath, then rises resolutely to his feet. Sherlock’s eyes track his every move, and John can all but see his beautiful mind analysing John’s every twitch and tell. For one glorious moment, he can’t tell if he’s the hunter or the prey.

It doesn’t matter. It never does. In four deliberate strides he comes to stand behind Sherlock’s chair, before bringing his hands up to rest them gently on the bare skin of Sherlock’s exposed shoulders. Sherlock releases a breath John didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Thank you for cooking tonight, Sherlock.” He runs his thumbs soothingly along the ridge of Sherlock’s trapezius, feeling the muscle give way in a scintillating release of tension.

“Thank you for bringing back wood.”

There’s a beat, then they both collapse into giggles.

“God dammit, Sherlock, I’m trying to seduce you here! Could you _not?”_

Sherlock is tittering helplessly, burying his face in his hands to muffle the sound, shoulders shaking with the effort of it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but you brought back _wood--”_

“Yes, yes, I’m well aware of the punchline, love, but what I need right now is for you to pay _attention.”_ And on that last word, he reaches up to the crown of Sherlock’s head, grabs a fistful of Sherlock’s hair, and _pulls._

The effect is instantaneous. As quickly as he’d gone to pieces, Sherlock is suddenly sitting stark straight in rapt attention, every muscle in his body quivering like an arrow on a taut bowstring.

“Mmm. That’s more like it.” John combs his fingers through to the side of his head and tangles them once more to give a firm yank.

“Oh, _fuck.”_ Sherlock’s voice is utterly transformed; throughout dinner he’d kept it even, conversational. Now it’s low and sultry and all but _dripping_ with desire. _Yes._ John wants more of _that._ He moves his hand back to Sherlock’s crown and pulls again.

“Nnnngh!” Sherlock’s hands fly down to grip the sides of the chair, and his legs apart as if by instinct. John can see his erection beginning to swell to full hardness within the confines of the silken panties.

“Oh, that’s beautiful. You like that, hmmm?” He drags his nails firmly along Sherlock’s scalp, and Sherlock whimpers. “Sorry, love, can’t hear you. I asked if you liked _this.”_ He manages to pinch some of the finer hairs at the base of Sherlock’s neck. It’s not as easy as it had been before his haircut, of course, but he still manages to get a reasonably firm grip-- at least, enough to stimulate him.

“Oh God, oh God, John…” Sherlock arches in his chair, thrusting his gorgeous chest forward as his spine bends in supplication.

“So lovely. You’re so lovely.” With that, John brings his free hand up to Sherlock’s right nipple and takes it between his thumb and forefinger, and begins to pluck it. At the same time, he takes another fistful of hair and gives it a firm tug.

 _“John.”_ The word is low and reverent and just the _tone_ of it makes John’s cock throb and ache, but he knows that patience is the only path forward for them now. He gives Sherlock’s nipple a firm twist, and smiles to himself as he watches his left nipple pebble in sympathetic stimulation. He fondly recalls that time on the sofa when he’d made Sherlock come from nipple stimulation alone. Maybe tonight they could--

No. Tonight was about celebrating Sherlock, this side of him, this pretty, perfect, precious side that he’s only ever let John see. Tonight is about _worshipping_ that.

John brings his fingertips to his lips to wet them before bringing them to Sherlock’s other nipple. He traces his areola in feather-light circles, and watches in contented fascination as the gooseflesh erupts across the porcelain planes of Sherlock’s pecs. Sherlock moans and arches into the touch. His eyes have rolled back in his head, and his cock is leaking a small damp patch into the front of his knickers already, transforming the crimson into deep maroon.

“Love? I want you to touch yourself now. Keep your cock in your panties, but I want you to show me how pretty it looks in all this gorgeous silk and lace. Will you do that for me?”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open as he tips his head back to meet John’s eye. “Will you… will you keep playing with my tits?”

And Christ, that word coming out of Sherlock’s mouth sends shock waves _straight_ to John’s groin, but he pushes the erotic thrill of it aside. “Of course, love. Of course I’ll keep playing with your _gorgeous, perfect_ tits--”

 _“God, yes…”_ For a moment John’s worried Sherlock’s about to come, but instead he just slumps further into his chair, his head lolling back as he pushes his chest eagerly up against John’s nimble fingers. John pulls his hair again, then leans down to lock their lips together in a deep, filthy kiss.

He plunders Sherlock’s mouth eagerly, swallowing his moans and sighs as his fingers skitter from nipple to nipple, carressing and pinching the pebbled buds while his other hand twists and tugs at Sherlock’s shorn locks. Beneath him, Sherlock is vibrating with overstimulation, his lips open and receptive as he surrenders his body to John’s overtures.

John finally breaks the kiss, his lips spit-slick and his tongue swollen with lust. Sherlock’s eyes blink open, and he gapes up at John, lost in arousal.

John tears his eyes away to look down at Sherlock’s groin. “Touch your cock, Sherlock. Show me your pretty cock…”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. As if in a trance, Sherlock’s hand flies to his member, and he takes it in his palm and begins to stroke it firmly through the lace, the heat and moisture causing the silk to stick tantalisingly to the outline of its form.

“Oh, God, yeah, that’s it, love, that’s it. Show me… Show me…”

Sherlock moans and his head drops back again as he begins to stroke himself with renewed vigor.

His cock looks… delicious. It’s still endlessly confusing to John how much his body responds to Sherlock’s cock, considering that he’d never so much as issued a passing glance at any other man’s body until he’d met Sherlock. But something about seeing _this_ part of Sherlock Holmes, this vulnerable, tender, beautiful part of him does things to John that he’s never felt about _anyone_ sexually before.

And the fact that tonight it’s wrapped in pretty red silk, straining against the confines of the elegantly designed pouch, causing the scalloped borders that trace Sherlock’s inguinal crease to ride up and around his visibly swollen sac, oh, that’s something else entirely.

All too soon, Sherlock’s gasps and cries rise to a crescendo, and John knows he needs to move things along or risk them coming to a somewhat undignified end.

“That’s enough.” Sherlock’s hand falls automatically away from his member as John ceases his own ministrations, backing away and leaving Sherlock a quivering, shuddering mess of electrified nerves. His legs are splayed so wide that the heels of his Leboutins are digging into the floor at a rather precarious angle, and his cock is tenting the panties so obscenely that John fears the seams may split.

But even so, his _hair-- Christ, his goddamn hair,_ this new, mature crop, so masculine and dignified and completely at odds with everything Sherlock was displaying from the waist down, it was a cognitive dissonance so jarring that John feels he almost _should_ be weirded out or turned off, but instead finds himself dizzyingly, maddeningly aroused, faint with the fever of his own desire.

“Come here.” He extends his hand firmly, and Sherlock turns his head slowly in John’s direction, his movements slow and languid, almost as if he were sleepwalking under a spell.

“I said, _come here.”_ Firmer this time. He can tell Sherlock is punch-drunk with desire too, but he’s fairly certain he doesn’t have the capacity to carry Sherlock all the way across the cottage and to the bed, so he’ll simply have to use his authority in this situation instead.

Sure enough, Sherlock rises, his expression dazed and disorientated. John gives him a smile, which Sherlock blearily returns.

“Lie down here.” John gestures towards the sofa in front of the fire. It will be warmer there, he reasons (plus the fire will provide more light, and he doesn’t want to miss a single _second_ of this spectacle).

Sherlock folds himself down to lie the sofa with his usual trademark grace. He props a pillow beneath his head then settles back, stretching out his infuriatingly long legs and arching his back. “Like this?”

John’s throat feels tight. “Yes. Touch your cock.”

Sherlock bites his lip coquettishly as he brings his hand back up to his cock. He doesn’t grip it immediately this time, instead working up to it slowly, thumbing the wet patch at the tip before dragging his elegant violinist’s fingers gently up and down the length of it, the corners of his lips turning up ever so slightly as his member twitches and pulses from the gentle stimulation. After a few moments he lowers his hand to palm his balls, giving them a light tug while John watches in rapt fascination.

It’s a gorgeous tableau, the sight of which John can no longer resist. He pulls open his flies to free his own member, which he takes in hand and begins to stroke in earnest. He remains standing a good five feet away, not moving, just _watching. Watching_ what Sherlock will do for him.

Eventually their strokes fall into sync, breaths coming faster as their chests rise and fall in tandem. Sherlock’s legs bend and spread, a sure sign he’s drawing close to orgasm, and John knows it’s time to make his move.

In three quick strides he’s on top of him, aligning their cocks and thrusting against that gorgeous silken heat for all he’s worth. Sherlock screams at the sudden onslaught of stimulation, his arms wrapping around John’s back to claw helplessly at the wool of his jumper. John, undeterred, simply moves faster, delighting in the sensation of silk against his own cock, and beneath that, the relentless hardness of Sherlock’s own arousal.

 _“Oh fuck! Oh fuck! John! John!”_ Sherlock’s eyes fly open wide as John rides him, reaching forward to brace against the armrest of the sofa to give himself better purchase to grind against Sherlock’s prone form.

“That’s it, love, _fuck,_ you feel how hard you’ve made me? You see what you do to me when you wear such pretty things for me? Oh, God, love, look what you’ve done to me…” He thrusts faster, harder, as Sherlock tips his pelvis up so that John’s member is stimulating his balls as well as his shaft with each brutal stroke.

The shift splays Sherlock’s legs open further, and John turns his head to see the glorious vision of one toned calf topped with a flexing foot and a stunning black heel, the masculine and feminine blending so gloriously he can’t tear his gaze away. He leans over and begins to lick and kiss and suck his way up Sherlock’s calf as beneath him, Sherlock’s body bucks and rolls.

“John! John! OH! OH! Oh--nnnnnngh!” 

Something about the unmistakable sound of Sherlock reaching climax ignites a primitive node in John’s brain, and the next thing he knows he’s sinking his teeth ferociously into the tender flesh of Sherlock’s leg.

“Fuck! Oh fuck! Oh, God, John, I’m-- oh-- oh--- _ohhhhhh!”_ Sherlock flails and trembles through another wave of pleasure, and it’s not until his body has gone lax and pliant that John releases his grip.

The man beneath him is beyond ruined, glistening with sweat, eyes glassy and unfocused, body limp and unresisting. John manages to raise himself up to sit on his heels and fully drink in the sight-- including the impressively-sized wet spot blossoming on the front of the precious panties.

He doesn’t think twice. He grabs the waistband and pulls the panties down, exposing Sherlock’s still-twitching, oversensitive cock. He scoops up as much of Sherlock’s come as he can, then brings it back to his own throbbing member and begins to stroke himself frantically.

It’s over quickly from there. The easy glide of his palm against his own blood-hot skin, the sight of Sherlock’s prick lying exposed and spent, cradled in the border of all that silk and lace, it’s all so _perfect_ and he _can’t, fuck, he can’t--_

The first few pulses of come hit Sherlock’s cock as John issues a guttural moan, then he aims the remainder at the soiled panties, rubbing the tip of his erupting prick against the smoothness of the silk as he spends himself in long, hard pulses. Sherlock watches with an awestruck expression as John empties himself over him, mouth open and lips glistening as John Watson falls utterly to pieces.

John’s admittedly not entirely sure what happens for a while after that. He knows he must have collapsed forward onto Sherlock, because when he finally gets his bearings, it’s to the distinctly unpleasant sensation of their groins connected by congealing come.

“Fuck.” John struggles to raise himself to his forearms and knees, his head light in the aftermath of such a powerful orgasm.

“Indeed.” It never ceases to amaze John how Sherlock can still turn on the snark when he hasn’t even yet opened his eyes or begun to recover.

“Mmmph. You alright?”

“Never better.”

“Mmm. Good.” He moves to sit back and turns his head to kiss Sherlock’s calf, which is still resting on the top of the sofa cushion. “Jesus _Christ!”_

“What?!” In an instant Sherlock’s propped upright on his forearms, the alertness in his eyes completely contrary to the debauched state of his body.

“Fuck, Sherlock, you’re _bleeding!_ I bit you so hard you’re _bleeding!”_ John stares at where his teeth have punctured the flesh of Sherlock’s calf.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side, completely unconcerned. “Well, that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“The fact I just came so hard I think I blacked out. We already knew the pain and pleasure centres in my brain have a few wires crossed. Probably not surprising that a little blood sends my nerves into tsunami mode.”

“Christ. Well, at least I’m glad you’re alright. Does it hurt now?”

Sherlock flexes and points his foot a few times, watching in fascination as a bit more blood pools in the indentations of John’s teeth marks. “A little. Is it wrong that I think it’s kind of hot as hell?”

John rolls his eyes and rises to his feet, then offers Sherlock a hand to do the same. “As relieved as I am that you’re pleased with this turn of events, we will NOT be making a habit of it. The human mouth is absolutely filthy, you know.”

Sherlock takes John’s hand and lets himself be hauled to his full height. “Why, yes. I _know.”_ The way he says it with such a goddamn sexual undertone makes John roll his eyes, but it’s with a smile on his face that he leads Sherlock to the bed so that he can lie down while John procures his first aid kit and gets him patched up. And it _certainly_ doesn’t escape John’s notice that Sherlock preens and complies happily as John cleans the wound and gets it bandaged, as opposed to when they were back on Baker Street and Sherlock often treated John’s medical intervention with acerbic ridicule.

And later, as he holds Sherlock against his chest in the soothing waters of the claw-foot tub (with Sherlock’s leg propped carefully on the side to avoid contamination), he takes extra care to stroke Sherlock’s hair, carefully combing through it as they chat about the coming week, their endless responsibilities and obligations, all that awaited them back home.

But amidst all that, there is also _this._ And _this_ will always be good. Be right. Be _perfect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY it took me this long to complete this one! As I mentioned, I'm currently working on a bigger case fic, and I kept distracting myself and circling back to that. Lesson learned! Anyway, thanks for sticking with me -- as always, please leave comments below, I love hearing from you!

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thanks for your patience while I work on a larger-scale casefic piece! Hoping to start posting that in the new year, but hope this will tide you over in the meantime.
> 
> Leave comments-- you know I love 'em.


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